


A Hell of a Feeling

by cecilkirk



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Smut, brallon, brendon in high heels because we all want it, let's be real here, literally just smut, top!dal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:06:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5820724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecilkirk/pseuds/cecilkirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon looks at him incredulously. “No?” he says with a laugh.</p><p>Dallon swallows, taking his turn to look over Brendon. “No. Keep them on.”</p><p>Brendon’s eyes flitter nervously in Dallon’s, and his cheeks redden just the slightest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hell of a Feeling

“Dallon. Do _not_ film me.”

He snorts, grins, and doesn’t put his phone down. “Too late, man. You know the guys will want to see this.”

Brendon tries to make his way over, but one step away from the rail of the staircase and he’s already falling. “Fuck you,” Brendon spits, but it’s with a grin.

Dallon backs up, making sure to get of Brendon with the additional six inches. He finally regains balance and takes one awkward, shaky step toward Dallon.

“Ta-da,” he says, standing straight for a whole moment before stumbling back to the wall behind him.

“No no no,” Dallon says. “Let’s see some strutting. Put that ass on display.”

Brendon shoots him a dirty look. Dallon barks out a laugh.

Slowly, maybe a little pathetically, Brendon finds his feet again and pulls away from the wall. He walks toward Dallon, one foot in front of the other in a way that only strikes Dallon as acquired grace. It’s a little painful to watch, but he has to admit he looks good.

Brendon manages to walk right in front of Dallon, plucks the phone from his hand, and puts it in his back pocket. He looks down at Dallon—now that he finally can—and revels in it, smirking, looking down at Dallon, head to toe to head. And maybe his eyes linger a little more than they should.

“Oh, give it back,” Dallon laughs, but nervousness laces his throat. He reaches for his phone just as Brendon stumbles, feet sliding out from under him, collapsing onto Dallon.

“Whoa there,” Dallon says, wrapping his arms around Brendon’s waist. Brendon grabs his shoulders, pulling himself up. He reaches one hand down to take them off, and—

“No,” Dallon says.

Brendon looks at him incredulously. “No?” he says with a laugh.

Dallon swallows, taking his turn to look over Brendon. “No. Keep them on.”

Brendon’s eyes flitter nervously in Dallon’s, and his cheeks redden just the slightest.

Dallon reaches for his phone in Brendon’s back pocket, closing the distance between them. He can feel Brendon’s breath swirl around his ear. He keeps his hand in the pocket, but doesn’t take his phone away.

“You like being tall, don’t you?” Dallon’s voice is deep and low. He puts his other hand in the other pocket, flattening his palms and squeezing. God, high heels did fucking _wonders._

“Yes,” Brendon replies, choked out in a whisper. Dallon looks at him, and his face is burning, a deep shade of red usually reserved for other places on his body.

Dallon grins—curled, impure, but far from insincere. He puts one hand on the back of Brendon’s neck and pulls him down so their mouths collide.

Dallon kisses Brendon deeply, quickly, swiftly licking into his mouth and finding what he wants. Brendon is awkwardly hunched, putting space between them, so Dallon stands on his toes to straighten him out and allow for more contact.

Brendon is nothing but pliable, giving into whatever Dallon does. No amount of pinching, biting, or hair pulling deters Brendon; Dallon would almost consider him soft, but a pressure in his stomach proposes the complete opposite. He pulls his hand from Brendon’s pocket and tries to shove it down the front of his pants, but two things stand in his way: the fact that Brendon’s pants are too tight for any added skin, and a realization that comes with it.

Dallon grins against Brendon’s mouth as the thought climbs into his mind, his tongue laced with nothing but sin.

He pulls away, hands on Brendon’s hips to steady him. He looks just to the right of Brendon, and then back.

“Go over there.”

Brendon looks and swallows, face even redder as he meets Dallon’s eyes again. He stutters and stumbles the few feet to the kitchen counter, but god, is Dallon ever glad to see him walk away.

Brendon semi-collapses on the counter, scrambling for purchase to turn around, but Dallon meets him there before he can try. He presses his body against Brendon’s, his ass perky in the air. Dallon puts his hands around his hips, sliding them forward to find the button and fly.

“You _really_ should wear heels more often,” Dallon growls as he wrestles off Brendon’s pants. “Does absolute wonders for your ass.”

He yanks down Brendon’s pants to his knees. His boxers are tight on his ass from the strain in fabric in the front and, _god,_ if it isn’t the most alluring invitation. His hands come back to Brendon’s hips, digging fingernails into hipbones and he presses his hips against Brendon’s ass. Brendon’s knee twitches and the sound of stiletto on tile pierces the atmosphere, breaking the silence, and instigating the beginning, forming the point of no return.

Dallon strips Brendon down and undoes his own pants, shoving clothes just low enough as necessary and grabbing his hips again, tighter now, with purpose. He presses against Brendon, and he gasps, wavering and ragged in his throat. Dallon thinks about being a tease, but he feels the strap of the stiletto against his shin and he can’t make himself devote the time. He rubs his thumbs over Brendon’s hips, curls his fingers, and—

“ _Shit!”_

\--and it’s enough for Dallon’s ears to burn, but in no way does it make him stop. He digs his nails deeply into Brendon’s hips, enough for Brendon to gasp in pain, and that’s not a deterrent either. Dallon hears Brendon’s own nails scratch the counter, scrambling for purchase, some sensation to fixate on. His breathing gets shallower, faster; he bites his lip and tastes sweat. His palms ache from squeezing so hard, and Brendon’s got one ankle somehow wrapped around Dallon’s, the misalignment of bone and plastic sharp but not as intense as—

“Fucking _god_.”

Dallon pulls away. Stars cloud his vision and he almost stumbles. He feels sweat slip down his chest, under his shirt. He readjusts himself and Brendon does the same, bringing himself back to full height. His face is dripping, flushed, and flustered. He bends down to strip off his heels, and this time Dallon doesn’t oppose.

With the shimmery pink pumps kicked to the side, Dallon walks back into Brendon, hands finding hips again, mouth adhering to his neck. He tastes sweat and licks it off, tongue stiff, just to make Brendon shiver.

“Pretty boy,” he growls, kissing Brendon’s neck sloppily, pressing their bodies together. “What a pretty boy.”


End file.
